


Mileage

by Orianne (morganya)



Category: Whose Line Is It Anyway? RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-11-07
Updated: 2004-11-07
Packaged: 2017-11-02 16:27:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/371042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morganya/pseuds/Orianne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Ryan, Colin and Greg had gone to high school together?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mileage

He could hear music from inside the house; it sounded like Stevie Wonder. The girl at the door stood with her arms crossed.

“I told you before, you've got to be a senior if you want to get in,” she said.

Greg tugged at the sleeves of his Army jacket. He knew he should have dressed better. He might have been able to sneak past the door fascists if he had worn something other than his ratty sneakers and jeans.

“You let in Jim and what's his name, the red-haired kid,” Greg said. “They're practically babies. What, are they wearing, like, 'I'm a senior' cologne? Is that how they fooled you?”

“You're not getting in.”

“Oh, I see,” Greg said. “I'm just not cool enough to go into your lame-ass house and drink your cheap beer and smoke your rope dope. Makes perfect sense to me. I'll just go home and stab myself in the heart to escape my shame then, shall I?”

“Look, are you going to leave, or are you going to stand around and make wisecracks all night?”

Greg stared at her. She looked at him like he was a bug. She probably had a ten-foot boyfriend lurking around who would break him in half.

“I'm gonna...” Greg said. “I'm gonna...I'm just gonna leave.”

Screwing up the last of his dignity, he turned away, walked down the path, got on his bicycle and pedaled away, thinking, Why, for Christ's sake why, did my car have to be in the shop?

*****

At home, lying on his bed, Greg took his baseball off the dresser and tossed it up at the ceiling. It made a satisfying thwack in his palm when it landed.

 _I'll throw my own damned party,_ he thought. _That'll show them. All I need to do is get Mom and Dad out of the house, hide all the valuables, um, put plastic over the floor and sofa, refill all the liquor afterwards, tell everyone not to smoke, and, um, a bunch of other stuff, and everything'll be fine when Mom and Dad get back._

 _Oh, who am I kidding._ He took his glasses off and rolled over. He curled his fingers around the baseball and waited to fall asleep.

*****

The car came out of the shop on Saturday, which meant he drove around staring at store windows until Monday, when he went to pick up Ryan. The carpool had dwindled until it was basically him and Ryan, which suited Greg fine.

Greg pulled up to Ryan's house on Hartford Avenue, honked the horn and lit a cigarette. He leaned forward, squinting at a speck on the windshield.

He heard the car door open and shut. “Hey, man,” Greg said absently, putting his hand out.

“Hey, Greg,” Ryan said, slapping Greg's palm. “Let me have one of those, would you?”

Greg gave him a sidelong look and started driving. “I didn't think you smoked.”

“I just started. Can I have one?”

Greg pointed to the cigarette pack on the dashboard. “San Carlos' star basketball player goes to rack and ruin, sports fans.”

Ryan shook a cigarette out, shifting his body uncomfortably in the tiny seat. His head almost touched the roof. “You sound like the coach.”

“Dude, I so don't care what you do,” Greg said. “Basketball ain't my sport. Smoke until your teeth turn green.”

“When did people's teeth turn green from smoking?” Ryan said, and lit up.

Greg shrugged. “So how was your weekend? Run around and pick up lots of chicks?”

“Oh, sure, man,” Ryan said. Greg wasn't sure if he was kidding. He never really knew what exactly went on inside Ryan's head.

They were pulling up to the school. Greg said, “Look, get out here and I'll park the car.”

“Greg, don't be a dick,” Ryan said. “What's the worst that can happen?”

Greg looked at him. “I'm sure your jock buddies would squeal with joy if they saw me with you.”

“They're not my buddies. I just play ball with them.” Ryan stared out the window. “It's not like I have a reputation to keep up.”

“Yeah, you do,” Greg said.

Ryan sighed and unfolded himself from the car. “You worry too much about stupid shit, man.”

“Whatever.” Greg watched him go.

*****

Greg couldn't stand school. Maybe that wasn't quite true. He didn't mind some of it. He just couldn't stand having to sit in class silently while the teachers tried to spoon-feed him stupid shit and he couldn't stand that everyone else didn't seem to realize that what they were supposed to learn was, in fact, stupid shit. He couldn't stomach it.

Sitting in AP History, doodling on his notebook, Greg started to become aware of Mr. Reardan's voice.

“So the Pilgrims, finding nothing but religious persecution in England, chose to leave, and find a new country where they could worship freely...”

“Yeah, so explain the witch trials,” Greg said. He meant to say it to himself; it was only when the words were out that he realized he'd spoken out loud. He heard Ellen McGovern giggling behind him. _Goddamnit._

“Mr. Proops, do you have a problem?” Mr. Reardan said.

“No, not really,” Greg said.

“If you find it so impossible to keep from commenting on the lesson...”

“I'm just saying that the Pilgrims don't really make me feel that proud to be an American.” Greg said. He could feel the jocks in the room swelling with indignation, but he couldn't stop himself. “I mean, people who go over to a country and slaughter the Indians and burn people at the stake aren't my idea of heroes.”

Mr. Reardan looked at him. “I think you know the way to the principal's office by now, Mr. Proops.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Greg mumbled. He picked up his books and shuffled out, hearing the laughter behind him.

He couldn't wait to get out of this place.

*****

Walking across the football field to get to the parking lot, Greg heard someone crying out. It was a low, muffled, half-scream, half-whimper. Despite his better judgment, which screamed, _Mind your own business, mind your own business_ , he went to see what was going on.

There were three of them. They were on Ryan's basketball team: Jeff Andrews, Steve Jacowski, and one other guy; Greg thought his name was Woody. They were crowded around something, just punching. He could hear the soft thudding sound of fists on flesh.

 _Just walk away_ , he thought. _It doesn't have anything to do with you_. But at the same time he was walking up to them, fast, and he could hear his own voice saying, “What the fuck are you doing?”

Woody turned and stared at him. The rest of them did the same. The kid on the ground—pale, dark-haired, slightly chubby—stirred and gasped for breath.

“What do you want, shit?” Woody said. Greg felt his jaw tighten. 'Shit' had been the insulting moniker of choice for him for the past two years; it was yet another of the terms coined from his last name.

“I don't want anything,” Greg said. “I just see a bunch of gorillas whaling on one dude. I figured it was worth checking out.”

“Why don't you just leave?” Woody said.

“I got a better idea,” Greg said. “Why don't you go home and fuck your sister? I mean—”

He felt the punch connect with his face before he had a chance to finish. His lower lip bashed against his teeth and his glasses flew off. Without them he was practically blind; the goons in front of him turned into hulking blobs.

He heard a grunt overhead; when he squinted he realized that the kid whose beating he'd interrupted had attacked one of the blobs, trying to pull him back. The blob shrugged him off; apparently Greg was more interesting at this point in time. The kid slumped to the ground.

Greg wasn't a fighter. He talked a good game, but he was too skinny and near-sighted to be any kind of a physical threat. Within two minutes he was on the ground, holding his arms over his head, clenching his teeth and willing himself not to cry.

“They're going to start practice soon, man,” one of them said. He couldn't tell who it was.

“Next time, mind your own fucking business, shit,” Woody said. Greg heard the sound of them leaving.

Greg pushed himself up, spat out a mouthful of bloody dirt and felt around for his glasses. They were dirty but they were intact. He wiped them off on his shirt and stood up.

The kid was still there, amazingly, sitting with his head resting on his folded arms. Greg sighed.

“Look, I think they're gone, man. I'd get out of here quick, though, I'm planning on it. You okay?”

The kid said nothing. His shoulders began to shake; Greg realized with horror that he was crying.

“Aw, fuck, don't do that,” Greg said. He paced up and down a few steps. “Buddy? Hey, it's okay, man. You want a cigarette or something? Buddy?” He felt around in his Army jacket. “I think they're kind of smooshed now, you know, but, hey, look, they're okay. You want one?” He was babbling from embarrassment and pain and concern. He held a cigarette out. “Buddy?”

The kid looked up. One of his eyes was swollen and bruised. There was blood trickling from his nose. He took the cigarette silently.

“All right,” Greg said. “You need a lighter? Wait, I got one. Why'd they try to kick your ass, anyway?”

The kid shook his head and lit up with Greg's lighter. He choked on the smoke and winced. Blood stained the cigarette filter when he took it away from his mouth. He passed back the lighter.

“Um, I think we shouldn't be hanging around here,” Greg said. “People are gonna come out and shit.”

The kid stood up. He was surprisingly big, at least two inches taller than Greg. He held the cigarette as though he didn't know what to do with it, not looking at Greg.

“Um, you okay?” Greg said. “They didn't, like, mess you up too bad?”

“No.” The kid's voice was soft; he was almost mumbling. There was a slight accent, with soft, lengthened vowels.

“Okay,” Greg said. “Uh, okay. I'm gonna, um, go home. You going to be okay?”

“Yeah.” The kid still hadn't looked at him. “Thanks,” he said quietly.

“Oh,” Greg said, and then realized he didn't know what to say. “That's all right.” He walked away, going towards the parking lot and his car. Once he was safely on the road and out of sight of the school he would curse and sob and blubber like a baby from the pain, but that could wait.

*****

“What happened to your face?” Ryan said when he got into the car.

Greg glared at him. “Some of your pals took exception to me.”

“What? Who?”

“I don't know,” Greg lied. He stared at the rear view mirror. His left eye was swollen and purple. His poor mother had nearly gotten hysterical when he came home. “I didn't catch their names when they were beating the shit out of me; next time I'll ask.”

Ryan scowled at him. “You know what it is? It's your fucking mouth, Greg. If you'd learn how to keep it shut this wouldn't happen.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Smooth,” Greg said flatly. “Maybe I should just be like you. Wouldn't want anything to bother me. Wouldn't like to actually react to stuff once in a while.”

Ryan stared at him. They were pulling up to the school.

“You better get out,” Greg said.

Ryan opened the car door and awkwardly got out, slamming the door. Before he left, he turned around and said quietly, “See you tomorrow morning?”

“Yeah, man,” Greg said. “Same bat time, same bat channel.” Then he drove to the parking lot.

*****

Greg had a play audition in the afternoon. It was really the only part of school that he truly enjoyed.

When he got into the auditorium, there were around fifteen people waiting for Mrs. Chase, the drama teacher. He shrugged his Army jacket up over his shoulders and went to sit down.

There was someone in the seat next to his. When Greg slumped down, the boy flinched slightly and looked up. It was the kid from the football field.

“Oh, hey,” Greg said, startled. “You trying out for something too?”

The kid didn't answer for a minute. His face looked much like Greg imagined his own face did: puffy and bruised. Behind the bruises his skin was so pale it was almost translucent, with dark eyes that took up half his face. Finally he said, “Yeah.”

“That's all right,” Greg said. “What are you, new? I just met you, um, yesterday.”

The kid didn't answer again. His eyes seemed to grow even larger, fixing Greg with a pleading look. Greg couldn't figure out if the kid was slow or if he was just painfully shy. “I transferred. Last week.” Again, Greg heard the accent; the kid sounded a little like Ryan, who'd grown up in Canada.

“Cool,” Greg said. “Did I ever get your name?”

“Colin.”

“Hey, Colin. I'm Greg.” He stuck out his hand.

The kid looked him up and down. Greg said irritably, “Well, shake it, for Christ's sake, I wash my hands.”

Colin shook it. “Thanks for, um, you know...”

“Eh,” Greg shrugged. “That's just something that happens once in a while, you understand. You run into a lot of lames here. Why were they on your ass, anyway?”

Colin shrugged and looked away. “They didn't rough you up too bad?”

“Nah, man. It's all right; impresses the chicks more if you've got battle scars, you know.” Greg grinned. “Did you, like, try to stop them? I can't see much without the glasses, but I thought...”

Colin still didn't look at him. This was beginning to feel like pulling teeth. Greg gave up and said, “Well, anyway, good luck, man.”

“Thanks. You too.”

Mrs. Chase came into the room, carrying her mimeographed sheets. She surveyed the room, sniffed disdainfully, and settled into her seat in the front row.

“Who's first?” she trilled.

Greg leaned over to Colin. “You ever been in plays before, man?”

“What? Oh, yeah. A couple when I was back home.”

“That's all right then. Don't let her throw you.”

Mrs. Chase was someone Greg's father would refer to as an 'odd duck.' It came out in auditions. They invariably put on plays like Our Town, but Mrs. Chase had carte blanche in auditions, and the scripts she gave to them to read for parts ranged from Euripides to Shakespeare. Greg supposed it was her way of weeding out who was really serious about 'the craft.' Acting talent had nothing to do with it; she just wanted to find someone who was willing to read the stuff.

Greg sat with Colin in silence, watching actor after actor struggling with the monologues. He sighed inwardly.

“All right,” Mrs. Chase said. “Who's next? Colin—what's this last name? Mockery?”

Colin stood up and walked to the stage, taking the sheet she handed him. He clasped his hands in front of him, shifting his feet. Greg shook his head and thought, _Oh, man_.

“All right, Colin. You will be reading from Richard III, by Mr. William Shakespeare. Don't worry about the words, please. You will begin when ready.”

Colin looked at the sheet. He hooked one foot behind the other. He took a deep breath.

And then he hunched over, his leg taking on a crooked aspect, his body contorting. It was as if he was made of rubber. When he began to speak, his voice had grown louder, stronger, while taking on a character of icy jealousy and resentment.

“Now is the winter of our discontent, made glorious summer by this son of York...”

 _Fuck me_ , Greg said to himself, _he's good_. He leaned forward, smiling, and when Colin was finished, he shot him the thumbs up.

*****

“So, do you think you got the part?” Ryan asked him.

“Part in what?”

“The play, you ass.”

“I won't know until Friday. Why are you always asking me about this? You don't even go to plays.”

“There's a lot of things you don't know about me, my friend.”

“You really should try out sometime, man.”

“Can't. Practice takes up my time.” Ryan shrugged. “I'm not exactly an actor.”

“Lotta chicks in Drama club, man.”

“There's a lot of chicks hanging around at practice too.”

“Yeah, you should conserve your strength.” Greg glanced at the rear view mirror. “What the fuck—” He honked the horn. The figure on the sidewalk stopped and turned around. Greg rolled down his window.

“Are you on drugs or something?” Ryan said.

“Hey!” Greg shouted out the window. “Hey, what's your name! You need a ride?”

Colin stopped walking and turned around. “Pardon?”

“You need a ride, or are you skipping out?”

“Oh. Yeah, all right.”

Greg pulled to the side of the road and unlocked the rear car door. Colin walked hurriedly across the street and got in.

“Thanks.”

“No problem, man. This huge thing sitting next to me is Ryan.” Greg gestured. “Ryan, this is...Colin something.”

“Mochrie,” Colin offered softly. “Hi.”

Ryan tilted his head as a hello and looked out of the window.

“You walk to school?” Greg said. “Man, you're cutting it close this morning.”

“I, um, overslept. My whole family overslept. It was a bit of a scene.”

Ryan suddenly turned around in the seat. “You sound funny. Are you Canadian?”

Colin's face, from what Greg could see of it in the mirror, looked terrified. “Uh...”

“My folks are Canadian,” Ryan explained. “We lived there for a few years when I was a kid. Near Vancouver.”

“Really?” Colin's face lit up. “I'm from Vancouver. Well, we moved around a lot but I'm basically from Vancouver. Where did you live?”

“Richmond.”

“Wow.” Colin leaned back. “That's like thirty minutes away from me. Where I used to be, anyway.”

“Why'd you come here?” Greg said. “You could have stayed in the lovely Canadian sunshine.”

Colin shrugged. “Dad's job. This is the...fifth time we've moved?”

“You like it here so far?” Ryan said. He stole one of Greg's cigarettes off the dashboard and offered it to Colin.

Colin took the cigarette after some hesitation and lit up, choking. He stared at the burning end. “No,” he said finally. “It's hell.”

Ryan nodded. “It's pure hell.” He looked at Greg.

”Fuck, I'm outnumbered.” Greg said.

They were pulling up to the school. Ryan said, “Look, what class do you have next?”

“Uh...” Colin poked in his book bag. “Geometry.”

“With who?”

“I don't know. The woman with the hair.”

“Is she the one who wears the thing?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. I know where that is. That's near my class, anyway.”

Greg stopped the car and Ryan and Colin got out without looking back at him, Ryan leaning down to say something, Colin nodding emphatically back.

*****

Colin became the third member of the unofficial carpool. Actually, it was more like Greg became the third member.

“You ever decide if you're going to take that job?” Ryan said, tilting his head back toward Colin.

“The ice cream one?” Colin shook his head. “I might, but I'd rather not.”

“Did I ever tell you I had an uncle who worked at an ice cream parlor?”

“Really.”

“He was in charge of all the ice creams, man. Strawberry, chocolate, vanilla...but then, you know, they brought in the banana ice cream, and he quit his job.”

“Oh. I can understand that. 'Cause when they bring in the bananas, you've got to split.” Colin said blandly, staring out the window.

Greg groaned. “You should take the job, Col. I mean, where else can you wear white pants and get away with it?”

“It could be worse,” Ryan said. “You could be the guy who paints the little white lines on the road. Spend your days dodging Mack trucks and stepping over roadkill.” He paused. “Of course, with the roadkill, you do get a free lunch...”

Both Greg and Colin groaned. They were pulling up to the school. “Rehearsal?” Colin said to Greg.

“Unless I die or something.”

“I wish I could do that,” Ryan said under his breath.

“What, die?”

“Never mind.” Ryan got out of the car, slamming the door. Colin shrugged apologetically at Greg and went after Ryan.

*****

“Lame.” Greg said to Colin, walking back to the car after rehearsal. “This has got to be the lamest play _ever_.”

Colin smiled at him. “You know, you complain constantly.”

“I...uh, no?”

“I think you enjoy it.”

“I think you just don't complain enough.”

“Hey, guys.” Ryan's voice was hoarse and louder than usual. He sprawled on the hood of Greg's car, book bag in his lap.

“What the fuck—” Greg said.

“I thought you had practice,” Colin said.

“I did. Not anymore, my friend.”

Greg raised an eyebrow at him.

“I quit.” Ryan said. “I'm not going to play basketball anymore. As a matter of fact, I might not go to school anymore either. I'm celebrating.” He took a can of beer out of the book bag and cracked it. “Have one with me.”

“You're nuts,” Greg said.

“Your parents are going to murder you,” Colin said.

“My parents don't care. There's four other kids in the family besides me to worry about. If I'm not playing ball, I'm not getting a scholarship and if I don't get a scholarship, I'm not going to college. I'm just getting the hell out of Dodge.”

“You could still get a scholarship,” Greg said.

“Fuck that. My grades aren't high enough. And I'm sick of it. My back's still screwed up from all the falls I took on the court. I can't drink, can't smoke, can't have a decent conversation with anyone on the team. I'm sick of classes, sick of studying, sick, sick, _sick_ , so fuck you. Fuck _both of you._ ” Ryan hauled himself off the hood and stomped off.

Greg looked at Colin, who sighed. “I'll go talk to him in a minute.”

“Think you can knock some sense into him?”

Colin sighed. “Ryan does what he wants to. It's not going to happen.”

*****

Ryan left, and Colin graduated to shotgun in Greg's car. It was odd not having the Ryan and Colin banter to listen to anymore.

“You thinking about college?” Greg said to Colin one day. “One more year, man.”

“This is my last year here.”

“What?”

“Dad got transferred back to Vancouver. We leave after school gets out. I'll finish up there, and then I guess I'll stay there to go to university. Try to get some stability.”

“Man. First Ryan, now you.”

“Ryan's coming with us.”

“ _What_?”

“He's decided he wants to try to do Theatresports up there. So he's going to come up and stay with us for a while until he can get settled.”

“Are your folks cool with that?” Greg said dully. He knew, instinctively, that if he had been in Ryan's place, Colin would not have made the same offer.

“Not exactly. But it's one more person who can babysit my brother and sister. Plus he can work and bring in some cash.”

“It's groovy how well you guys get along.”

“It's got to be hard on you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I don't know. I guess you felt left out sometimes.”

Greg winced. Colin had an unnerving tendency to know what other people were feeling. “It's all right. You know, you guys have your own thing...” He shrugged. “You want to get together one last time? Maybe cut school and go into the City?”

“Cut school?” Colin frowned. “I don't know...”

“Aw, come on. It's the end of the year and it'll be fun. I might never see you guys again.”

“You are really incredibly manipulative.”

Greg grinned. “It's a gift.”

*****

The plan was simple. Greg would pick up Colin, swing around and go get Ryan, then drive into San Francisco. It was unclear what they'd do when they actually got there, but hopefully, it wouldn't be constructive.

“I say we pool the money,” Ryan said from the backseat once they hit the highway.

“Pool the money?” Colin said.

“Yeah, you know. One person holds the cash.”

“Why?” Colin said.

“I've been saving that money for two months. I'm not going to blow it in one day. If someone's holding it, it lessens the chance of your blowing it all. It all makes sense.”

“No, it doesn't.”

“Yes, it does. I say Greg should hold the cash.”

“I didn't say nothing!” Greg protested. “What if I go nuts and spend everything? I can't handle this much freedom, man.”

“Yeah, you can.”

“But what if...”

“If you don't, I'm going to kick your ass.”

“Fine,” Greg mumbled. Both Colin and Ryan tossed their wallets in his lap. “Jesus Christ, don't toss shit at me when I'm driving. I'll lose control of the wheel and we'll all die.”

“Where should we go first?” Colin said quietly.

“Fisherman's Wharf?” Greg said. He took his eyes off the wheel for a second to consolidate the money, slipping it into his pocket. “We can look at Alcatraz and take it from there.”

“I got no problems with that.” Ryan said.

They stood by the guard rail on the Wharf, staring at the island, towers jutting out into the sky. There were people crawling up and down the Wharf, tourists and business people and children on field trips. The air smelled of fish.

“What does 'Alcatraz' mean, anyway?” Ryan said.

“Pelican,” Greg said absently. Someone bumped into him; he felt a flicker of annoyance but didn't turn around. “It's Spanish or something.”

“I say it means 'You're screwed, you jailbird.'” Ryan said. “I'm starving. What time is it?”

Greg looked at his watch. “Ten thirtyish.”

“Close enough. Let's go get a burger.”

“We could stay here,” Colin said. “Lots of restaurants.”

Ryan shook his head. “My dad's a fisherman. I hear enough about marine life as it is.” He started walking back to the car.

“Where's a good place?” Colin said once they'd started driving again.

“My buddy told me about this place in Chinatown—” Greg looked at the dashboard. “Whoa, wait. I'm running on fumes. Let's get some gas.”

When he pulled into the Shell station, just as the car was beginning to die, Greg reached back to get the money, and found nothing. He stopped, checked his other pockets. Nothing. “Fuck,” he said softly.

“What happened?”

“Guys, I don't have the money. I think someone picked my pocket.” He remembered the person who'd bumped into him; was that when it happened? Just then the car died. They stared at the windshield.

“You idiot.” Ryan said flatly. “Jesus Christ, you've screwed us all.” He got out of the car, slamming the door. Greg jumped out after him. Ryan was walking down to the sidewalk.

”How is it my fault? You're the one who gave me the fucking money in the first place.”

“Maybe we should call home.” Colin said from behind him. “It can't be worse than being stuck here.”

“Are you _kidding_ , Colin?” Greg said. “If I call home, my mother'll know we skipped today. I'll be toast.”

“If you just knew how to watch your back,” Ryan said furiously. “You make out like you're so smart, but you're just another spoiled brat from the suburbs.”

Greg's fists clenched. It was either get angry or burst into tears; at the moment, getting angry looked like the better option. “Don't you go blaming me. If you had the sense to keep your money in your pocket instead of blowing it on stupid shit...” There was a crowd of people gathering around them, intrigued by the raised voices.

“At least I know when someone's stealing my money. Wish I could say the same for you, you little...”

“ _Shut up_!” Colin silenced them both. Greg felt his jaw drop. In all the time he'd known Colin, he'd never known him to raise his voice. Ryan stared at Colin with his mouth hanging open.

“Shut up, you _big tall goof_!” Colin said. The crowd around them stirred with excitement. “Every day we hear this! Every day, this from you! Just because you visited...” He paused to think. “Just because you spent time in Toledo doesn't mean you're the expert on crime prevention!” He looked at Ryan, inclining his head towards the crowd. And Ryan smiled.

“Listen, my friend, those years in Toledo taught me more than you can imagine! Did you know that grown men will eat car tires if you starve them enough? You didn't, did you? I'm the only one who knows that.”

“Well, considering you just gave it away, I know it too. So there.” Colin stuck out his tongue. The crowd laughed.

All at once, Greg understood. It was guerrilla theater on the streets of San Francisco. Now Colin was looking at him. He said, “Will you both stop with the Toledo war stories? You're missing the whole point, which is that we lost the money for Mom. How are we supposed to buy an iron lung now?”

“Maybe we could make one.” Colin said. “I heard you can make your own iron lung using nothing but a hamster and some aluminum foil.”

“Hamsters are allergic to aluminum, you fool!” Greg said.

“Do you know how many people I had to mud wrestle to get that money?” Ryan said.

“Well, maybe we don't need to go back to mud wrestling.” Colin said. “Maybe there's something cleaner we could do.”

“Maybe we could get real jobs.” Greg said.

Ryan and Colin looked at him. “What, are you nuts?”

The crowd laughed. Greg stepped forward. “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, you've been watching a modern interpretation of 'Love's Labours Lost' by Semantics of Springfield. We're a small, make that a very small theater company, and we do these reenactments, both for our own enjoyment and for the pleasure of the crowd. However, pleasure does not come cheap these days...”

They were out in the San Francisco sun for four hours, changing areas when it looked like they were going to get nabbed for busking. When they called it quits, they had three hundred dollars in small bills and change. They filled up Greg's gas tank.

“Get some food now?” Colin said hopefully.

“Screw that.” Ryan said, grinning. “We're getting beer.”

“Thank God for fake IDs.” Greg said.

Laden with alcohol and various substances, they drove home, where Greg pulled into a lot, and they drank, listening to Foghat on the radio.

Ryan eventually fell asleep in the back seat, his face pressed into an empty beer can.

“I could do this for a living.” Colin said to Greg.

“What, drink?” Greg sparked a joint, took a hit and passed it over. Colin inhaled awkwardly, almost choking, and passed it back. He didn't say anything else until it was finished.

“No,” he said, “I mean, mess around in front of people for a living.”

Greg laughed and gave him another beer.

“Ah, screw you,” Colin said pleasantly. He took a swig of beer and gagged. “Watery American crap.”

“You'll be getting that sweet Canadian nectar soon enough, I guess.”

“I guess.” He punched Greg's shoulder. “We'll miss you.”

Greg laughed again. “You'll miss my car.”

“That too.” Colin squinted at his watch. “What time is it?”

“Umm...” Greg checked. “Seven, eightish.”

“When were you supposed to be home for dinner?”

“Five, sixish.” Greg began to giggle. “When were you supposed to be home?”

Colin snorted with laughter. “Four.”

“My parents are going to kill me,” Greg said in between giggles. “I'm going to be grounded until I graduate college.”

Colin was choking. “I'm going to get sent to Scotland to live with my grandparents. 'Och, iiiiiii!'”

“That's the worst accent ever.”

“I know, and I was born there.”

Greg struggled to put on a Scottish burr. “Och, Mochrie, ye've disgraced the family, with your pitiful attempt at dialects...”

“Jesus Christ,” Ryan said sleepily from the back seat. “What are you two giggling about?”

“I'm going to get sent back to Scotland, Ryan,” Colin said. “I'm going to be stuck there, herding sheep...”

“Sheep!” Greg put his head on the steering wheel. “Baaa, Col, baaaaa!”

Ryan lobbed an empty beer can into the front seat. It bounced harmlessly off of Greg's head. “Why do I like you two idiots, anyway? Something must be wrong with me.”

“Ahhhh! Ryan hit my hair! Medic!”

“Ryan, you've mortally wounded Greg's wall of hair!”

“Oh, Lord.” Ryan went back to sleep.

*****

College wasn't so bad, Greg thought, as he sat in the theater scowling at a pile of wood that somehow had to transform into the frame for a backdrop. There was less spoon feeding in the classes, he'd started making the rounds of coffee houses and open mikes with his buddy Forrest, trying the standup thing (pretty successfully, he might add), and he'd started dating a funny, brilliant, gorgeous woman named Jennifer. It was a decent life.

Still, he missed the times he'd had with Ryan and Colin in the car. Colin still wrote to him occasionally from Vancouver, where he was going to theater school. Ryan had never been a letter writer, but Colin kept him up to date. Ryan apparently was doing the same standup comedy gig as Greg, only in clubs that Colin, in his understated way, described as 'rough.' They were all getting by, but Greg still wanted a partner in crime. Forrest was his buddy, he liked Forrest, but there wasn't the same connection.

He scowled at the pile of wood again. _Why did I take a theater production class? I don't know a hammer from a hole in the ground._ He picked up a two-by-four and examined it.

He realized he wasn't alone. There was someone lumbering around in the back. He recognized the person as another theater geek; he was in some of Greg's classes. He was big all over, with wild, unkempt curly hair. He didn't speak so much as rumble majestically, which Greg, who was perennially self-conscious about his own sharp, nasal voice, envied. He came out from the back and looked at Greg.

“Looks like you're having some problems there.” The majestic voice was both amused and curious.

“I'm going to fail this class, I know it.” Greg said. “This whole thing looks like a tree exploded.”

“It's not so bad.” He moved over to Greg. “Need some help?”

“Yeah. You offering?”

“No, I'm asking for my health. Yes, I'm offering. Are those your dimensions? Okay. Pick that piece of wood up. You need to get everything aligned. No, don't put it there, it'll wind up being too small. Okay. You're getting it. No, that one's too long. Try...yeah, you got it. You're ready to move on to hammer and nails now. You want...”

“ _Jesus fucking Christ_!”

“Well, the first thing you want to do is not hit yourself with the hammer. But that's over and done with now. You need to keep your hand at a safe distance. Yeah, like that. Good. Halfway there. Just about...now.” He placed a paw squarely on top of Greg's head and said, “You're a natural.”

Greg looked up and smiled. The stranger offered his free hand and said, “Hi. I'm Mike.”

Greg offered his hand. “Hi. I'm Greg.”


End file.
